Tourist
by LostInColour
Summary: [PreStormbreaker] Ian Rider's in Victoria, Canada, on a mission for MI:6, when he finds himself interrupted by someone... different. [IanOC]
1. Chapter 1

Tourist

**A/N: Hello! This is my first attempt at Alex Rider fanfiction, so play nice. If you see any mistakes, _please_ tell me so that I can correct them. This is an IanOC fic, because there is only _ONE_ other. Which kinda sucks, if you ask me. So anyway, I've started a happy campaign for MORE IAN FICS! I mean, come on people. Ian Rider? He is _such_ a completely undeveloped character. You can do _so much_ with him, already! So, if you wish to join the campaign, simply put a note saying !MORE IAN FICS! somewhere in your fics/profile/etc. This means that you MUST WRITE IAN FICS! They don't have to be romance, but more are needed! SO write, people, write!**

**Disclaimer: I am not Anthony Horowitz. I am not male, I am not married and I don't have two children. I, therefore, do not own anything to do with Alex Rider. I'm just jumping on the bandwagon, and am SPREADING THE LOVE, PEOPLE!**

**Ahem.**

Chapter One: Chances

Ian Rider's job often took him away from home. He often, therefore, was away from his young nephew, Alex Rider. This was something of a problem, because the baby-sitter he had been employing had packed up and quit on him, just when he was called away again. Luckily, he'd been able to get a replacement: a friendly, American woman called Jack Starbright, who was in England doing a university course. Alex had just started school, so Jack would attend her lectures in the day after dropping Alex off, then would pick him up and do all the things that needed doing. They had even managed to arrange a fee before he went, and Ian had been able to introduce Jack to Alex himself, which was an added bonus.

However, although he missed being at home with Alex, he loved his job. There was something of a certain freedom of being away from the pressures of home life. Not, of course, that anyone outside of his workplace would understand that. To the world, Ian Rider was… an accountant. Who just happened to be sent away to conferences a lot. "It must be your people skills," Alex's ex-sitter had commented once, causing Ian to laugh. He told Alex that the conferences were extremely boring, and he wished that he didn't have to go, but "the bank needs me". Afterwards, he always felt horribly guilty about having to lie to his nephew, for, despite his almost constant absences, he loved him a great deal. Alex reminded Ian forcibly of his brother. Alex's father, John, and his mother, Helen, had died in an aeroplane accident. John had been Ian's older brother, and his best friend. Not that he saw him much in those last few years. Because Ian Rider led a secret life, hidden behind the lies of the Royal and General.

Ian Rider was a spy.

And right now, he was on a mission for MISO, the section on MI:6 that he worked for. MISO stood for Military Intelligence: Special Operations, and its head was an emotionless man named Alan Blunt. Ian didn't particularly like Blunt, but he _was _his boss, and had arranged things for Ian that could never have been done otherwise. Like the memorial for John and Helen Rider that Ian could _never_ have afforded on his salary. And their paying off his mortgage just when he would have had to lose the house, so that he could stay near to the building that _called_ itself The Royal and General Bank, but was _really_ MISO headquarters.

He was situated in Victoria, Victoria Island, Canada. This was good, because it was one of the few places that he hadn't been. It was also bad, because Mr Blunt refused to take into account the time difference between London and Victoria. Which was rather irritating, especially when he called at three in the morning for check ups on his agent.

Ian was posing as a reporter for a British magazine that was here to interview and write an article upon one Mr Simon Richards and his business, CARMAL. For some reason, MISO didn't trust Mr Richards, but Ian wasn't to be privileged with the information that brought them to this conclusion. Instead, he was told to find out as much as possible about CARMAL and report back to MISO as much as possible.

He had spent almost a week in Victoria, and was currently sitting outside a small café at one of the umbrella'd tables provided, a cup of steaming coffee in front of him alongside an open notepad and a fountain pen. For himself, Ian hated writing in Biro, but would assent to using Rollerballs at a push. He was planning his "article", whilst really deciding upon the most important information for his report to Mr Blunt that evening.

He was halfway through re-writing a paragraph so that it would make sense to someone other than him when a voice came from in front of him, making him look up sharply.

"Would you mind terribly if I sat here? Only all the other tables are taken, and Canadians are… well, a tad scary, if you want my honest opinion. Too friendly."

Standing next to the table, a mug very like his own clutched between her hands, was a woman. A young woman, Ian corrected himself, for she couldn't be more than twenty-four or twenty-five. He nodded, moving the notepad out of the way so that she could put her cup down. She smiled gratefully at him as she sat.

"Thank you. I didn't quite fancy drinking this standing up." She raised the cup in indication, then took a drink from it.

"You're not from around here, are you?" he asked, looking up at her as he slid the lid of his pen home with a click. The report could wait until later. She looked at him over the rim of her mug, apparently assessing him. Her eyes were a startling blue, lined with thick, dark eyelashes. She set the mug down with a soft _chink_ on the wood table, and sat back in her chair.

"No, I'm not. And, if I'm any judge, neither are you."

Ian grinned. "Busted." She smiled back, hair falling into her eyes as she picked up her cup again. She blew on it, took a sip, then set it down again before answering his question.

"I'm Welsh, if you must know. From Cardiff." She glanced up at him, regarding him through her hair. "And you, you're from… London?"

Ian blinked, setting down his own cup. "How did you know?"

She laughed. "Don't worry, I'm not some freakish stalker. Your accent. I _am_ from Britain, you know. I _do_ have a television, and a month's train pass. But, why are you here? In Victoria?"

Ian tapped the notebook with his pen. "I'm a reporter for the _Oxford Express_," he said. The name and the paper were both fictional, but if someone wanted to check out the _Oxford Express_, they'd just be put straight through to the Royal and General. MISO was nifty like that. "I'm here doing an article on Simon Richards, and CARMAL. I was just consolidating my notes when you came along."

The corners of her eyes crinkled as she attempted to look mortified. "Oops!" she said, forcing the corners of her mouth down. "Sorry about that. I hope I wasn't interrupting something vital?"

Ian shook his head, smiling as he picked up his mug.

They spoke of nothing and everything for the next half-hour, until she suddenly looked down at her watch and exclaimed loudly. This earned her some nasty looks from the surrounding tables, which she quickly placated with a hurried apology. She glanced regretfully back at Ian.

"Sorry," she said, "but I'm supposed to be at a meeting right about now, and I'm running late. Thanks for the company…" She stood up, dropping a note onto the saucer and securing it with the mug. "Maybe I'll see you around?" she said, as she turned to go. Ian nodded.

"Bye." She walked away, and was soon lost to sight amongst the bustling crowds. Ian, deciding that he might as well get back to his rented apartment, followed suit. Standing up, he was putting his pen and pad back into the shoulder bag that he had by his feet when a touch on his arm caused him to look up.

"I… sorry to bother you again," she was back, "but I… you don't happen to know where the Angelton Spencer is, do you? 'Cause I'm rather lost, as it is…"

Ian laughed, feeling surprisingly glad to be back in her company. Maybe it was because she was the only other British person he had met in Canada. Yes, he told himself as he straightened up. That must be it. "Sure," he said, and her face lit up. "I'll show you."

Swinging the bag over his shoulder, he pushed his way onto the crowd.

**A/N II: Hi again! This is just to prod you more forcibly to REVIEW! Love it? Hate it? Find something that you'd like to see more of, or that you think needs changing? (Like MISO, for instance. I'm not quite sure if I got that right…) If you like, you can flame. But expect several on any fics that _you've_ written, if that's the case. Or (and possibly _and_), I'll send you a nasty e-mail, saying just how rubbish _you_ are. Neener.**

**Oh, and one more thing. If any of you live in Victoria, I'm sorry. I have never been to… well, I haven't crossed the Pond (that's Brit slang for the Atlantic, in case you didn't know) at all, so I know _nothing_ about Victoria. You may not have cute little awning'd cafés. There probably isn't somewhere called the Angelton Spencer. So you'll just have to bear with me. Hope you can bear the torture. To be fair, I have to put up with a lot of it in Harry Potter fanfiction written by Americans. So, we're probably square.**

**REVIEW!**

**LostInColour**


	2. First Interlude

**A/N: This chapter isn't _really_ a chapter, as such. I have a strict plan for eleven chapters (with the names chosen and everything), but I have to add little bits of info here and there, so that it makes more sense. This is the first of, well, probably many. I'm not one to dramatically alter my plans, and I don't like making my FF works more than three pages long at a time (that is, on MW: Verdana 10pt). So… yeah. These won't be very long… maybe a page to a page and a half. They're not _supposed_ to be long. Honest.**

**Thanks to amitai for reviewing! All loffs!**

**DISCLAIMER: I don't own Alex Rider, Ian Rider, Victoria or Yassen Gregorovich (who doesn't actually make an appearance in this fic, but I love him anyway. Go you good bad guys! squishes). Is it nice to rub it in?**

First Interlude

It had been late afternoon when the pair had met at the café table, and evening was drawing in as they left it. Their movements were carefully monitored from a side alley to the left of the café. When they moved, their watcher carefully followed, making sure that the couple did not see them.

Ian found that his new companion was rather good company. He had thought that they would probably have covered most of the things that they could talk about back at the café, but she was a surprisingly robust chatterer. Lucky for him, as the only company Ian had had for the past week was the surly security and the flirty receptionist at CARMAL - not including the big man himself, of course - and the phone calls from Mr Blunt most mornings. It made a nice change to have someone to _talk_ to.

She was here looking for a job. A friend of a friend's boyfriend's cousin's god-daughter had told her that she - this is the god-daughter - would talk to her father, and see if she could get her a job in his firm. Three weeks after the message had been passed back down through the channels of communication, she had been told to go to Victoria for an interview and a probable placement.

"And even if I _don't_ get the job - which doesn't look likely right now - then at least I've seen a bit of Canada. I've got photos and everything, so I can stick them on my walls when I get home." She had looked over at him then, noting his slightly bemused expression. "I stick all my holiday photos on my bedroom walls," she explained. "It reminds me of the good times, when I'm feeling low." She didn't embellish on _when_ or _why _she might be feeling low, and Ian didn't push her for information. After all, it wasn't as if he was telling _her_ everything, was it?

The sun had almost completely set by now, and the tall surrounding buildings threw vast shadows across the pavements, which were almost devoid of life. It seemed that Canadians - or Victorians, at any rate - had early bedtimes. The road they were on was… oh dear.

"This isn't right," said Ian quietly, looking around him. He spotted a street sign, and swore. They should've taken the previous turning… When he relayed this piece of information to his companion, she too cursed.

"Does that mean we're going to have to backtrack _all that way_?" she asked. Suddenly, she shivered and rubbed her arms, glancing around. Ian had felt it too. The distinct impression that they were being watched, and not from just one location either. This was definitely _not_ good.

"Come on," he said, taking her elbow and steering her to her right. "There's a short cut through here."

She stared at him. "You said you'd only been in Victoria a week! How on _earth_ do you know your way around so well?"

He smiled tightly. The feeling of being watched had grown in intensity, and he had an uncomfortable sensation in his gut. And his gut had never let him down so far. "I've got a good sense of direction," he said as they stepped into the alley that cut between two darkened superstores.

They were about half way down the alley, and Ian was just about to admit that he had maybe been jumping to conclusions when there was the swift, muted _pock_ of a silenced bullet slicing through the air, and the all-too-familiar _crack_ at it hit a wall to Ian's far right. He swore, and dragged her to one side.

Another gun went off to their right, and Ian realised that they were surrounded. He swore again, and pushed her forward into a run. Soon they were sprinting down the alley. He could hear her breath coming in short, sharp gasps, hear the pounding of their feet on the tarmac. And those were the only sounds, apart from the throbbing pulse of his own heart, hammering in his ears.

The end of the alley was in sight. They could see another road passed the looming black walls of the bordering shops. They were almost there… Something collided with Ian's shoulder, and for a moment he thought he'd been shot. Then he was being thrown to the floor by something barrelling into his side. There was a thud, and a gasped curse from his left as he checked his shoulder. He hadn't been shot, just clipped by a bullet as it whizzed past.

He felt rather than saw her crouch next to him. "Are you okay?" she whispered. He nodded, and accepted her hand to help him up. There was a squishy dark shape on the floor. He looked down at the girl standing next to him. She was nursing her left hand. He saw her teeth flash in the blackness as she grinned at him. "Think we can make it?" she asked, nodding towards the exit. Ian looked at her carefully.

"If you drop that gun, then maybe," he replied softly. There was a clink of fallen metal, and a soft, warm hand slid into his own. He surprised himself by closing his own around it.

Almost as if they had rehearsed it, they dashed off together for the end of the alley. A bullet ricocheted off the wall, and he heard a swift gasp of pain. But there was no time to think as they sprinted out of the alley and off up the street. She pulled him to the right, and then down another alley. This time, they ran straight on up the fire escape so handily provided for them.

She stopped on the fourth floor, bringing him to an abrupt halt as she fumbled with the door. Finally it was open, and they tumbled through.

It was dark in the flat. Ian could just see the outline of her face in the dim light filtering through from the still open door. There was blood in her cheek, and he realised that either the stray bullet or a piece of shattered brickwork had sliced through her cheek. He brought up his hand to touch it. She flinched slightly as he did so. There was a movement, so quick that Ian barely had time to register it.

The next thing he knew, her lips were on his, his tongue clashing with hers as frantic, clumsy hands pushed, pulled, kicked and ripped off pieces of clothing. Somewhere along the line, the door got closed and they were on the bed, but Ian could never _quite_ remember how either happened.

**A/N: Okay, so it's just over two pages. So what? Do I hear you complaining? Just remember to review…**


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